All Through the Night
by Obsidian Grey
Summary: Despite the whole nation-state thing and those weird age differences they've got going on, America has always been, first and foremost, a father.


He never really knew how to act around little kids.

See, England wasn't that much of a role model. That wasn't to say that he _wasn't _a role model, no! It was just, like... He wasn't around very often, the longest America could ever remember him staying and actually devoting all his attention to his young colony was two weeks, and then he got called back for some business something. It didn't really bother him that much now, but there was still that feeling of utter heartbreak leftover from his childhood, watching his sort-of-mentor-father-brother-person leave _again_.

That, and he was more of a kid himself. He'd only been around for the better part of a century, which wasn't very long at all compared to most of the other nations he'd met. But he _grew_, shot up like a beanstalk, and he was a confused colony-child in a fifteen-year old body. That was about the age people expected young girls and boys to become young ladies and men, and America kind of raised himself, so it was all very confusing for him.

He loved kids, that was the thing! And they liked him, too, they liked his smile and how he'd play with them and only ever turn them away if he had a _really really important reason_ because he never wanted them to feel that crushing sense of disappointment that only a child could feel. They had the confusion and the hurt but none of the comprehension to go with it, and that just made it worse.

He was just a kid himself! And all these adults were expecting him to quiet down and mature and be the _reasonable _one around children, which totally wasn't going to happen anytime soon. He knew how to be a kid, not how to _raise _one!

The Colony and Dominion of Virginia was the first one he found, probably because he spent most of his time in Virginia and therefore she was the closest. She was blonde, with blue-green eyes and bushy eyebrows that looked a little bit like England's (although nowhere near as bad, thank heavens!) and wearing a puffy little white blouse and a skirt.

He didn't know what to do with her at first. It was 1743, thoughts of rebellion hadn't entered his head yet and wouldn't for a little while yet, he was fifteen and the little girl looked like she was three.

...He could pass her off as his little sister, he decided, and took her back to the too-large house where England had left him. He certainly wasn't going to let his caretaker get his hands on these colonies, not yet, at least.

But then he found the Province of New York, and then New Jersey, and _then _Pennsylvania. They all look to be about six by that point, even though nearly twenty years have passed. The Province of Massachusetts Bay came in the aftermath of what would one day be called the Boston Massacre (and _now _those ideas of rebellion were coming and they sounded better and better by the day). The Province of Maryland and the Provinces of North and South Carolina, and the Province of Georgia, Connecticut Colony and Delaware Colony, and the Colony of Rhode Island and Providence Plantations.

Thirteen of them. _Thirteen _of them, and one of him, and there was a war brewing, he was dealing with the politicians doing their best to settle things in their recently formed Congress, England had stopped coming to see him years ago and now he was probably just pissed at all the ruckus. He chose to hide the colonies from the politicians as well, because they were all pretty cool guys, but it was just that there were a couple that were good friends with _other_ politicians, and knew about France and America's brother Canada, and... yeah. There was a war going on, if _any _countries found out about his colonies they could try and hurt them, and they were all so _young_... no. Just _no._

He picked up thirty seven more of them during the next few centuries. Colorado had this strange obsession with skiing, and in spite of this he was rarely found without Utah, Arizona, and New Mexico. Utah had its fair share of mountains, but the other two were _desert _states... Idaho never stopped going on about potatoes, Wisconsin liked cheese, and it had been a good two hundred and fifty years since New York and Massachusetts first met and they still hadn't stopped trying to strangle each other.

Two hundred and fifty years.

He still didn't really know how to act around kids, and he praised nearly every deity he could think of that the first thirteen had grown older by the time he'd started finding the rest of them. There was no _way _that he could manage fifty little children without losing his mind. America was nineteen, physically, by this point, and his oldest were somewhere around seventeen and eighteen. Alaska and Hawaii were the youngest at ages five and six, and all the others tended to drift a little bit. They had the tendency to overrule him if they thought he was making a stupid decision, and they were more like a dysfunctional family of cousins than a father and his kids... but they _were _his kids, and he was their father.

It was an odd way of life. They made it work.

* * *

Steven Kirkland-Jones, often referred to as the state of New York, had picked up a mild case of insomnia over the years. It wasn't that bad, normally, but there were occasions when he went for a solid week without sleeping, and he would often find himself sprawled out on the couch in his boxers and his laptop at three in the morning waiting to finally doze off.

It didn't look like he'd be dozing off any time soon, unfortunately, and it was winter, so he was wrapped up in some navy flannel pajamas, a pair of slippers, and a blanket. His laptop was in his room, and he was just staring blearily at the empty fireplace across from the couch.

Springs creaked and the cushion dipped slightly as someone sat down next to him.

"How long's it been this time?" his father asked, far too energetically for... however late it was now.

"Dunno." He shrugged and hugged a cushion to his chest. "Four days? Kinda blurry."

He winced. "Yeah, I hear you."

As a country spanning six different times zones, there were days when America found himself either unable to sleep or nodding off at random hours of the day.

"And..." New York frowned, trying to form his thoughts into something coherent. "It's not that I mind...? I mean, I _mind_, but I can normally get stuff done... Everything's kinda hazy and stuff, and my coordination's _shot_, an'... and... I sound like I'm drunk, don't I?"

"Little bit." America sounded as though he was trying to restrain from chuckling. "Come on, kid, let's go grab some cider."

"Hmm...?"

He didn't really have time to comprehend the statement before his father pulled them both up and escorted him into the kitchen, tossing a pot onto the stove and starting to heat up the apple cider they had stocked in their multiple refrigerators. They had at least six of everything in the house, what with there being fifty one of them and all.

"You should probably sit down," America said after a few minutes, stirring the liquid in the pot with a wooden spoon. "I'm not explaining to Massachusetts why he can't argue with his brother because he fell asleep standing in the kitchen and now has a concussion."

It wasn't really _that _funny, but New York snickered. And sat down.

"Aren't we s'posed to be saving that for Christmas?" New York motioned vaguely towards the cider. "And... microwaves."

"Tastes better when you heat it the old-fashioned way," his father laughed. "And what Virginia doesn't know won't hurt her."

"Could hurt _us_."

"I'm her father, and we can sway enough of the states over to our side so she can't pull a majority vote on me."

"Democracy." New York pumped his fist in the air.

"Got that right!" America whooped. It didn't take very much longer for the cider to heat, so the nation ladled some of it into two mugs and turned the heat on the stove to low, placing a cover over the pot so it would stay warm. He placed the mugs on the counter with a flourish. "Here you go, kid."

"I'm not a kid," he protested halfheartedly. "I'm two hundred and thirty six. You're only two years older than me!"

America waved a hand dismissively. "You're still my kid."

"If you insist." He gave a heavy mock-sigh before they both lost control of their blank expressions and laughed.

Three o'clock in the morning, and they continued to talk in the dim lighting of the kitchen about this and that, inane topics that the state could easily follow without confusing himself too much, sitting on the counters with their legs swinging back and forth and drinking cider. It was when America paused to take a breath during one of his tales about the adventures him and Canada had gotten up to when they were little that he noticed New York slumped slightly to one side, his head resting against the cabinets, and snoring softly.

A gentle smile spreading across his face, the nation quietly hopped off the counter top and carefully removed the mostly-full mug of cider from his son's limp hand. Then, with remarkable ease, he picked his son up in his arms and carried him through the house, up the stairs and down the hallways.

New York's bedroom door was shut, which complicated matters a little bit, but the problem was quickly solved by Maine, who had gotten up early – it was now five o'clock in the morning – to get some water and watch the sunrise. The younger state grinned like Christmas had come early, but said nothing, and opened the door for them before wandering off.

(Later that afternoon, New York would make no mention of how he had made it back to his bedroom, and America would not explain, and things would go on as normal.)

The interior of the bedroom was customized with sports memorabilia and a few other things, photographs and personal trinkets acquired over the years. He set the state down in the bed and tucked the covers up around him, gently smoothing some of the hair out of his face, and he smiled again.

"Goodnight, kid," he whispered, double-checking that the curtains were tightly drawn in order to let his son sleep for as long as possible. "Sleep well."

* * *

"_'m tired, Papa."_

_America, who had been intending to go to sleep as soon as he had finished reading over the latest draft of the Declaration of Independence that had been given to him for overview, looked blearily at New York. The little state was clutching a rabbit plush in one hand, pulling it along by one of its floppy ears, and he was sucking on his thumb._

"_Well why aren't you asleep, then?" he asked, coming over and kneeling down so the two were at a closer height._

_New York shrugged. "Can't sleep."_

_What did England do when America couldn't sleep? He didn't really remember, it wasn't as though he was ever **there** to begin with... and America never really had that much trouble sleeping... uh... hm._

_Oh, he really didn't know how to act around kids._

"_Come here, kiddo." He cradled the boy in his arms, getting up and settling them both on the couch. "And all of your siblings are asleep as well?"_

"_Yeah, but you're always awake late." The state yawned and nuzzled into America's jacket. "Can you sing a lullaby, Papa?"_

_It caught him completely off-guard. "Uh... a lullaby?"_

_Of course he knew what a lullaby **was**, but he wasn't much of a singer and he didn't really know any, and... children, ugh. He was so completely unprepared for this._

"_Yeah." New York blinked up at him with those wide, blue-green eyes, such a perfect mix between America and England that it hurt. "Virginia knows songs, and sometimes she'll sing at night."_

"_Ah."_

_Lullabies, lullabies... did he know any lullabies? Um..._

_...yeah. England sang to him, once, when he was very very **very **young. It had been storming. He said it was an old Welsh song, not that America had been paying very much attention at the time, but... yeah, that was a lullaby._

"_Sure, kiddo." He shifted into a slightly more comfortable position. "Right, just let me know if Papa's singing voice is too horrible for your precious hearing."_

_New York giggled. "Okay, Papa."_

"_Sleep, my child, and peace attend thee, all through the night... Guardian angels God will send thee, all through the night... Soft the drowsy hours are keeping, hill and vale in slumber sleeping... I, my loving vigil keeping, all through the night."_

_So maybe he could sing. New York was already starting to doze off in his arms._

"_While the moon her watch is keeping, all through the night... While the weary world is sleeping, all through the night. O'er thy spirit gently stealing, visions of delight revealing... breathes a pure and holy feeling, all through the night..."_

_Maybe this parenting thing wasn't too bad after all._

* * *

**Headcanon time!**

**So America isn't too much older than his states, mainly the oldest colonies, but there was a bit of an age gap when they were younger. Thing is, when that age gap was around, America had only been alive for a couple decades and didn't really know how to be a parent. So despite the strained relationship with England, even during and following the Revolutionary War, he was drawing off the admittedly scarce parenting skills that he'd been raised by.**

_**All Through the Night**_**, ****or **_**Ar Hyd Y Nos**_**, ****is a Welsh folk song. ****I've looked it up, and I **_**think **_**(call me out if I'm wrong) that it was put to English words in 1784****. There are multiple variations, from what I've seen, but the ones here are the ones that I like the best. Call it artistic license that he's singing a song from a couple decades into the future.**

**L****ong story short, England sang this as a lullaby to America when the colony was little and England was actually around, and America sings it to his ****states**** whenever they can't sleep. He sings it to his to some of the younger ones even now, and his voice tends to adopt a bit of an English accent in the process...**


End file.
